Caught in Transport
by gemstone1234
Summary: The jump at St Bart's goes horribly wrong resulting in Sherlock becoming 'locked-in' his own body. This time he has no choice but to rely on his friends.
1. Chapter 1

**Caught in transport**

The city was spread out around them, filling the surroundings as far as the horizons. The sounds of life filled his ears, the bustling streets and the toots of horns. An aeroplane flew above their head forming a streak in the sky, far above their heads. He was aware of what was happening below, life and death, grief and joy, a place of hope and hopelessness all concealed inside one building. And on top was the solution, the solution to the final problem.

Sherlock stared at the shorter yet frankly intimidating man. His very being seemed to emanate power and he seemed to be the very manifestation of insanity. The other man stared back in excitement, he was not bored, this game was interesting, shame his playmate had to die really. "Do it Sherlock," hissed Moriarty in encouragement. "It would be a real shame if your friends had to die, it really would. Although, I do think that doctor fellow would make a pretty adorable corpse." The detective let out an animalistic growl and took a threatening step towards the Irishman.

"Whoa there," said Moriarty, trying and failing to withhold the giggles. "Hurt me if you want but someone will get shot in the leg. I can't promise who though, I let my boys work that out among themselves." There was a moment with no sound, no movement. It was as if that rooftop was frozen in time as the rest of the world rushed by. Suddenly a look of pure terror crossed Sherlock's face, it was soon covered by his usual mask but Moriarty caught it causing a sinister grin to spread across his face.

Sherlock knew he had to do it; he couldn't let John, Mrs Hudson or Lestrade die, and most certainly not all three. The resignation must have been obvious in his body language. "You Sherlock Holmes are a fool, you most certainly do have a heart I am afraid and that is the gravest, and last, mistake you will ever make. The detective hardly even heard him; his heart was filled with trepidation and all his mind could seem to think was that John would never understand the sacrifice. It is quite possible John would hate him for doing it and he would never understand, he never did think enough to put all the pieces together. But that was rather Moriarty's point; destroy everything that made Sherlock, Sherlock including any credibility and friendships he had managed to gain.

The self-proclaimed sociopath glanced back at the grinning psychopath. "Can I have a moment, please," Sherlock almost begged but to the listener he sounded as cold as ever. There was a glimmer of surprise on Moriarty's part before he nodded in confirmation. "Of course." With that he turned his back and walked towards the other side of the roof. Slowly Sherlock made his way to the edge of the building and stood on the wall. A taxi careened around the corner and Sherlock smiled, John, his John, always trying to fix things, always coming to his rescue. Not this time. With one gloved hand he removed the slender phone from his coat pocket. John was speed dial number one.

The taxi came to a sudden halt and a sandy haired man leapt out the back, phone pressed firmly to his ear. "Sherlock!" he shouted down the phone. "What the hell is going on? You better have a damn good explanation."

"Stay there!" shouted Sherlock but John ignored him.

"Sherlock-"

"I said stay there John." His voice was thick with emotions he hadn't realised he possessed. He did not want to die. John heard something in his friend's voice which indicated he was deadly serious, John stopped exactly where he was.

"Please, I deserve to know, what is going on, I can help."

"No, no you can't John. I can't explain, just listen, it's important you listen."

"Where are you Sherlock?" asked John, his voice positively dripping with worry.

"I'm up here, look up." John obeyed and felt his knees go weak. "Don't move!" screamed Sherlock as John stepped towards the building. The detective leaned his body dangerously forward stopping the doctor in his tracks.

"Ok mate, its ok, I'll stay here. Please, come down and we'll fix it, we'll fix whatever has gone wrong. We always do."

"No," Sherlock said sadly. "I-I can't come down s-so I'm just going to have to do this from up here."

"Do what? Please, just tell me what's going on."

"This is my note."

"Your note, wait, what do you mean that this is your note?" At this point Mycroft and a gang of men in black jackets appeared behind John. The elder Holmes bore a black ear piece; he had heard the whole conversation.

"That's what people do isn't it? Leave notes? Well, this is as close as I can get."

"Please Sherlock, don't, you don't need to. We can fix…"

"No!" screamed Sherlock once again. John shivered; he knew his friend was crying, he could hear the tears fall. "Please John, you need to listen to me, this is important, call it my final request." This time John shuddered but he was willing to listen.

"I'll listen but please, just, just don't call it that."

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't crying. He just wanted to go down and see John but he couldn't. For the first time since he was a child he wanted, no needed, a hug. He'd even settle for one from his brother who he could see standing next to John, staring up at him with a look of pure fear. "I lied; Richard Brook is an actor I paid. I just pretended; I wanted to impress you."

"No… no, why are you saying that Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry John, I am so, so sorry."

"Right, listen; you remember the day we first met? I gave you my phone and you knew everything about me, do you remember that? It wasn't a lie."

"I used the internet John; it was nothing more than a great lie."

"No, I know you Sherlock, you're a great man."

"One more thing John, I want you to tell Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, the whole of Scotland Yard, anyone who will listen, that I am a fake."

"No Sherlock, I don't believe you." By this stage John could feel the tears pouring down his own face.

"You must, I'm sorry."

"No."

"Goodbye John, thank you for everything."

With that Sherlock flung his phone to the side, without bothering to hang up. He took a deep breath; spread his arms and fell, the delighted squeals of Jim Moriarty in the background.

Sherlock's life did not flash before his eyes; the moments of falling could not possibly be described in such poetic or idyllic terms. It was horrific; the screams of his best friend filled his mind. His cries of emotional anguish and horror permeate his very being. The ground rushes up to meet him and he feels nothing, there is nothing for him anymore except the cold grey pavement. _Sorry John_ flashed into his mind before his bones crumpled beneath his mass and he knew no more.

In Mycroft Holmes' mind John Watson had always been an overly emotional man; he in fact considered it a deadly weakness. At this moment in time, however, he wished he could let his emotions get away with him. But he could not. He was the British government, the British government did not scream or yell or become hysterical at the sight of a man jumping off the top of a building. Instead he had to hold back a distraught man as tears of sadness silently slid down his face.

When the body had been taken away John suddenly swung round and attempted to punch the elder Holmes in the face. "Why did you do that?" he screamed. "I need to see him; I need to see him for myself!" The tears were still pouring down Mycroft's face but neither of the men seemed to notice them.

"I wanted him out of public view; I didn't want him to become a spectacle. We'll go and see him now." John nodded; he suddenly seemed to have lost all of his energy and followed Mycroft. The doctor didn't even pretend he was not upset but the other man produced a handkerchief from his suit and wiped his eyes. To the average person it did not look as if there was anything wrong with the man.

"Excuse me," shouted Mycroft over the hustle and bustle or reception to a nurse behind the desk. "Could you please take me and my, um, colleague, to see the body of Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"S'cuse me?" she asked utterly bewildered, something which greatly annoyed both John and Mycroft.

"We need to see the body of the man who just jumped off the roof."

"I don't know no nothin' 'bout that, you aint allowed to see no bodies in the morgue."

"I assure you we are." He produced an ID and the nurse scurried off to find a superior, a few minutes later John, who had managed to regain a little control, and Mycroft, who still looked as calm and collected as ever, were rushed off into an empty waiting room. A few minutes later an average height, dark haired man entered the room, evidently a doctor who had been told to come and see them. "I hear you're looking for the body of the man who jumped?" he asked in a much more refined voice than the nurse at reception. Both John and Mycroft nodded in confirmation.

"Afraid I can't do that, he had a pulse when he came in, it was weak but it was there. He's up in the operation theatre right now."

Mycroft's men knew they were too late when they heard the sound of a man screeching in delight as they were running up the stairs. Their boss had warned them about Moriarty, they knew he was insane. The door burst open as they ran through to face one man who had a glint in his eye. He was grinning, even as he let them handcuff him. "What are you grinning about?" growled one of the agents as he roughly pulled Moriarty down the stairs. "I beat the great Sherlock Holmes and it was eeeeeeasy," the psychopath replied in a sing-song voice.

_I hope you enjoyed this. What I just wrote was basically an introduction; I will get to the main plot in either the next chapter or the one after that, it depends how much I end up writing I supposed. I'm not sure how regularly I will update but I will keep updating. Also, I love all my readers but all those who review get a special place in my heart. ;)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Caught in transport**

Every hospital room in every hospital was the same; Spartan, clean, wreaking of antiseptic and an exceedingly bright white, which simply should not exist, it always overwhelmed the occupants. They all lacked a sense of personality, the patient was simply a code on a computer and the room was a reference. There is no mention of the daily struggle for life which is undertaken every day by the person, the human being, struggling to clasp onto life, to some semblance which makes them the person they are or once were. The patient simply becomes a code lost within hundreds of other codes, an inconspicuous number lost within the crowds.

Sherlock too lacked personality. The doctor could see the man but there was nothing of the lively, annoying yet stunningly brilliant and intelligent consulting detective to be seen. That man was lost beneath the wires and tubes that engulfed him, which made him just another patient, when he was lying there, face impossibly pale against the white sheets, he was just a man. But that wasn't quite true, the doctor knew that just below the surface there was so much, so much that would either be lost or restored. Not only was there a brilliant mind but also a man with so much to give if he were to be treated correctly. He was by no stretch of the imagination a kind or a loving man but John knew, John had seen, that he was most definitely, a good man.

It had been eight days since Sherlock had come out of surgery, still alive but unable to breathe for himself. The doctor's said there was a good chance that he would emerge from the coma but, as with all head injuries, everything was highly unpredictable. As a doctor John knew the significance of the first twenty four of a coma, that period is the time that a patient has the greatest chance of emerging. Every day, when his eyes lay on the unconscious form of the detective, as cliché as it was, he felt a little hope seep out of him. The longer spent in a comatose state the less likely the patient was to awaken.

There was one aspect of the whole situation John found humorous. Even when in a comatose state, and completely oblivious to his own existence, Sherlock still managed to wreak havoc. Perhaps that was a slight exaggeration but due to his run in with Moriarty, and therefore his sudden presence in the press, the were a large number on the medical staff who refused to treat him due to the lies which had been published about him. When Mycroft had found out about this he had managed to work himself up into a frenzy which resulted in two nurses a doctor and a porter getting fired. As soon as Sherlock woke from his coma he was scheduled to be moved to a private hospital, everyone agreed they didn't want to risk moving him before he woke up.

The steady beep, beep, beep of the heart rate monitor was both reassuring and disconcerting at the same time. It meant his friend was still alive, no matter what his distinct lack of movement indicated but such a machine should not be so much as associated with a man such as Sherlock Holmes, much less declaring to the world how completely and utterly human he was. Sherlock wouldn't abide it if he was awake; he'd have torn it out within seconds.

It must have been a mistake, it simply had to of been, but John could have sworn he saw a flicker of the eyes, a slight twitch from beneath the taped eyelids. He knew Sherlock believed in coincidence but he himself was not so convinced but if he saw what he thought he saw, then it certainly was coincidence considering his train of thought, but even so, it was probably only his imagination. Even so, he had to check with his doctor, just to be sure.

The doctor came, very reluctantly that is, but he still came and took a quick look. He obviously thought John was just trying to cause problems as he did nothing in any detail, rather he muttered something about involuntary movements of the eye muscles, and slinked back out of the room having swept away all of John's hope.

Mycroft Holmes observed his brother sadly, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, correction; he watched the artificial rise and fall of his chest. His independent, overly confident little brother now had to rely on someone to do everything. He couldn't even breathe for himself. At the age of three Mycroft could remember Sherlock developed a case of appendicitis, of course the idiot attempted to hide it, even at that age he had been stubborn and hated help, and did so successfully until he collapsed. When he was taken to hospital he had to go in to emergency surgery as the doctor's realised it had burst. He had been so sick after that ordeal, lying stock still in the bed for days on end. But that stillness could not compare to what seemed to be a perpetual stillness now.

Mycroft sighed, he supposed he should really phone Mummy and let her know. The elder Holmes' and the younger Holmes' had fallen out with each other when both Mycroft and Sherlock had been relatively young. Sherlock had been ten and Mycroft seventeen. Of course, Mycroft managed to run off to university almost as soon as it had happened but Sherlock was trapped with them and, from what Mycroft could make out, had not liked a single second of it. That is where all of the resentment between the two of them had originated. Looking back Mycroft knew he should have at least let Sherlock live with him at university to escape but the past was the past, nothing could be done.

Hesitantly he picked up his phone and dialled his mother's number.

_Hello Mummy its Mycroft. No, no, no, don't hang up. I need to tell you something._

_Sherlock's hurt, it's pretty bad._

_He's your youngest son Mummy, that's why you should care!_

_He, um, he jumped off the roof of the hospital, he smashed his head in and now he is lying in a coma in a hospital bed and has been for the last ten days._

_He didn't try to commit suicide._

_LISTEN! It's hard to explain, its related to a, well a case he's been working on. The criminal threatened three of his friends and he had to jump to save them. _

_Please, can you come down and see him._

_What if he doesn't get through this and the last time you saw him was ten years ago, won't you feel bad at all._

_I thought me and Sherlock were heartless but you're just taking it to a whole other level._

Mycroft glanced at his brother, just wishing everything was still ok when he saw something. He hung up quickly, in the middle of whatever mummy was saying (it probably wasn't important) and looked intently at Sherlock. He could have sworn he saw his eyes fluttering beneath the taped lids. "Sherly," he started cautiously, half expecting the unconscious man to jump out and hit him for using the long abandoned childhood name. "Can you move your eyes for me?" There was no response and Mycroft sat back disappointed, for a single moment there had been hope.

Mrs Hudson stared at the silent figure of the loud and lively man who occupied the flat she owned. Oh yes, he was incredibly infuriating and by the standard of most tenant, he was infuriating. But he was one of her boys and she cared deeply for him and he cared deeply for her, she could tell. He didn't show it, never very good at emotions but anger, that was one he could not hold back on. The idiot probably did not realise what one could reveal in a fit of anger. Of course, when he was really angry, properly furious, he wasn't loud, and he didn't come at the person fighting and letting the anger cloud his judgement. Oh no, quite the opposite in fact. He used the energy produced by the feeling of anger and used it to fuel his massive intellect and he used it to his advantage. Sometimes he would say a few scathing word that hit a 'low blow' so to speak. Other times it would come across as an icy rage. Like the time the CIA trained killer broke into 221B, he had used his brain to outsmart him and then, when he was in the grasp of the detective, he would release his fury. She smiled at the memory of the man being thrown out of the window onto the bins.

She stroked his head gently, knowing that if he was awake he would hate it but she found herself not caring. She needed some reassurance that the man was still real. She did not plan on talking but she found herself talking utter nonsense to him. "You know that nice builder that came in to fix the ceiling in the hallway after you shot it? I invited him into my flat for a cuppa afterwards and he accepted. After I gave him his tea he saw a number of my cupboard doors needed replacing and he said if I got the doors he'd be happy to do it free of charge for me. Of course I accepted, never have been good at DIY myself, I'd been planning on asking one of you boys to do it for me once I got around to buying some new ones. Well, I would have asked John, I very much doubt you'd want to fix my cupboard doors." She chuckled softly to herself. "I found a new scone recipe too. Oh my goodness, it's delicious, you have to recover soon so I can make them for you when you get back home. And you can't throw that "I'm not hungry" crap my way, I will physically shove them down your throat if I have to."

At that point she stopped talking in surprise; she could swear that Sherlock was moving his eyes beneath his eyelids. Could people in a coma do that? She didn't think so but she did not know much about medicine. The movement stopped and she dragged the chair closer to the bed so she could run her fingers through his curls. They were greasy; she'd have to talk to the nurses to get their act together. Even if the lies, and she knew they were lies, in the papers were true they should still treat him like a human being and she would damn well make sure that they did. "Sherlock, it's Mrs Hudson. Can you hear me?" The eyes flickered for a split second and she gasped. She didn't think it meant something but to those who were trained it might mean something. She'd tell John later, he was sleeping now though and he needed it, there was nothing, other than Sherlock properly waking up, that would cause her to contact him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Caught in transport**

The world outside kept on turning, people kept on living their lives, feeling joy, happiness, pain and sorrow. They were all wrapped in their own little world, oblivious to the struggles that surrounded them, only concerning themselves with what was going on with them. Even the hallway outside the hospital room was bustling with activity only these people knew of the struggles, they were fully aware of reality; only many of them chose to ignore it. Caring for the sick and dying was a job, while they were there they cared, as soon as the clock hit eight o'clock they all went home to blend into the crowds, forgetting the tragedy and pain they left behind. Inside the hospital room time stopped, it was irrelevant, meant nothing, the four walls trapped the occupants in a bubble where time did not exist but out with the walls, time moved on as swiftly as ever.

John was trapped in his own little world, barely registering the DI entering the room and sitting himself on the chair the other side of the bed. The silence was thick and it felt like a sin to break it so neither of them spoke, they simply sat and watched the motionless man in the bed. Simultaneously they reminisced about the man who was lying there, still very much alive but who had the appearance of a dead man to the untrained eye. Only the steady beep, beep indicated there was life within the motionless shell.

Eventually John broke the silence, nature calling him too strongly. "Hey Greg, stay here with him a minute would you? I need to use the toilet." Of course the DI nodded and John reluctantly headed down the hallway. "Look you idiot," he started, unsure of why he was talking to an unconscious man, he could almost hear Sherlock's scathing remarks. "I know what you're thinking, no point talking to a man who can't hear you, it's stupid really, but I have something really important to tell you. Just, stop being stupid and wake up. Can you do that for me? Just, just wake up, it's not a big ask. Will you do it? Will you do it for John?"

The room seemed thick with silence except for the heart monitor which was making its presence known. Lestrade glanced up at the clock but his gaze instantly fell back on the detective. Something moved and Lestrade could have sworn it was the nearly dead man's eyes that had flickered. "Sherlock, mate, can you hear me?" he asked, leaning forwards in his seat, desperately hoping for a response, any response would have been promising. But there was nothing, no indicators that the man could hear him. "Just my imagination then," he muttered, disappointed as the door swung open.

Through it walked John, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson, the latter was carrying a pot containing a Venus fly trap, a big one at that. "He was always keen on these, before John came along and there were no cases he used to spend his time catching flies and feeding them to it. Sometimes he would cut open the traps to see what stage of digestion they were at," she explained to Lestrade's questioning look.

Once everyone was settled Mycroft turned his attention to the DI, spinning his umbrella absentmindedly on the ground. "What were you saying when we came in?"

"Sorry, what?"

"You were muttering something about it being your imagination when we came in, I was wondering what it was."

"Oh, it was nothing really, I just thought that I saw his eyes flickering but I don't think I did." This caught everyone's attention; their heads snapped up and looked at the DI in a manner which unnerved him. "What, is there something I'm missing here?"

"No, not at all," replied Mycroft slowly. "I just saw his eyes moving when I was on the phone to Mummy the other day."

"Mummy?" asked Lestrade in disbelief.

"Well, yes, my mother, our mother. Problem?"

"Oh no, it's just not many people refer to their mother as Mummy nowadays."

"I saw his eyes moving too," interrupted Mrs Hudson, "If anyone is interested. I was talking to him and his eyes started to flicker. He stopped and I asked him something and they flickered again, it's like it was a response but I just thought it was a coincidence." Suddenly all eyes were on the medical man, looking for some hope, but he did not seem ready to give any, he was rubbing the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. "Yes, I've seen it too, I told the doctors but they didn't think anything of it. But this much movement, it's not typical of a coma patient."

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" asked Mrs Hudson, practically clinging onto John looking for an inkling of hope.

"I have a thought but I'm not saying it. I've only seen it a couple of times so its very unlikely this has happened to Sherlock. We need to talk to the doctors."

And they did talk to the doctor's, who almost instantly dismissed them. It was Mycroft who managed to get Sherlock seen, albeit for five minutes. All they did was shine a penlight in his eyes to check to see whether or not he was responsive. When his pupils did not contract they said he was showing no signs of waking up and then left. "I want him transferred," said Mycroft as they left. "I'll get him in a private hospital where people will actually do their damn jobs." After a brief discussion everyone agreed to leave it a few days, to see if he did start to wake up or not, after that Mycroft would make the call.

Three days passed and Sherlock's eyes kept flickering. John had removed the tape from his eyes, thinking perhaps he'd be able to open his eyelids at some point. That was yet to happen but they kept on hoping. They'd all started talking to him too, just on the off chance that there were moment he could hear their voices, so that he would know that he wasn't actually alone.

"He needs an MRI," stated John to Mycroft three days later. "I think there is something going on in his brain that can't be picked up by the EEG." Mycroft nodded and stood up.

"Any recommendations you make Dr Watson will be fulfilled. I want what is best for my brother." With that the British Government walked out the room and a minute later the sound of shouting emanated from down the hallway.

"There are people who actually need the MRI Mr Holmes!" shouted the doctor. "I do not want to waste a good hour on such an expensive machine simply due to your own sentimentality!" John could practically hear Mycroft's eyes narrowing as he looked at what would soon become a victim of the man's power.

"I can assure you that any and all expenses can be covered if that is the problem doctor."

"I am sorry Mr Holmes but I am simply not going to refer your brother for an MRI that will not do any good at all."

"Very well, on your head be it. If I were you I wouldn't bother starting anything new, in a few minutes you aren't going to have a job."

"What?" By this time Mycroft had dialled not-Anthea.

"Ah, do you know the name of Sherlock's doctor? Good. I want his job terminated immediately and for him to be forcibly removed by security, would you organise that for me?" The doctor stood there, open mouthed, as the government official hung up his phone.

"You think you're so important don't you Mr Holmes. I don't see why, your brother is a fraud and a foul one at that. The nation hates him, loathes him in fact and therefore it hates you. You can't touch me." Mycroft smiled his sickly smile. Oh no, I won't be touching you doctor, well, you don't own that title anymore I'm afraid. But those men down the hall don't look like they'll have much of a problem with disposing of you." The doctor's eyes widened as he saw a group of security personnel heading towards him. He tried to make a run for it but to no avail. He was soon caught. Mycroft turned to the small crowd that had gathered and pointed at a doctor. "You, would you mind referring my brother for an MRI or do you have a problem too?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Caught in transport**

John smiled as Sherlock was wheeled off to get the MRI. It was amazing how fast things in a hospital could actually move when given a little incentive. Mycroft's clear display of power had resulted in more than a little activity on the part of the doctors, John had a feeling that Sherlock would not be messed about by them again. The small group took the opportunity to freshen up a bit, something none of them had much of an opportunity for anymore. John used one of the showers at the hospital; Mrs Hudson headed home, excited at the prospect to have a nice long soak in the bath and promised John to bring some sandwiches and cake when she went back to the hospital. Mycroft and Lestrade had to work but they both would be coming round to the hospital as soon as they could.

The hot water poured over John's clammy skin. Normally he was very conscious of his personal hygiene, hating it if he missed a shower even for one day. However, since Sherlock had gone into hospital his cleanliness had not been at the forefront of his mind. However on the odd occasion that he did get in the shower, this time included, he revelled in the lukewarm water that fell from the shower that was mediocre at best. To the doctor showering was a ritual, something familiar with which he could relax and prepare himself for the outside world. And he knew that whatever the outcome of this situation, even if the best possible thing happened life was going to be difficult for the next few months, perhaps even years. It was almost as if within the small shower cubicle he was safe and protected but once he emerged his whole world would be sent flying into mayhem. So he spent as long in the shower as he possibly could, unwilling to face reality until it was absolutely necessary.

Mycroft Holmes was well known for being emotionless and unsentimental. Some people though him as cold and heartless, he preferred to describe it as being not foolish enough to allow his emotions to cloud his judgements. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he knew he had a heart, but his heart took the form of his little brother. Technically he should be working on the latest crisis, the fact that HMRC had once again managed to lose important data disks. How they managed to employ such imbeciles he would never know. Anthea, which was her real name despite what she told people, took over it for him. She could do just as good a job. Instead he just sat in his office, laptop open watching old videos of Sherlock. He had been a lively little boy, very antisocial and had a genius level intellect, but as a child he had been happy, content to play and investigate by himself. There were several videos of him carefully concocting experiments with home-made chemistry equipment. There was one video, on Sherlock's seventh birthday. The young boy was dressed as a pirate, as was their father, and the two of them were chasing each other around the large garden with cutlasses. Sherlock's natural ability to handle a sword, albeit a toy one, still astounded him now as he watched the familiar memory unfold before his eyes. The two were evenly matched, Sherlock with his natural flair and their father who did fencing as a hobby. In the end it was the man who came out triumphant, _stabbing _Sherlock in the heart, the small boy's arm holding the sword in place as he pretended to stagger and convulse. He had a disturbing knowledge of death throes for such a young boy and he collapsed convincingly. There he lay, stock still on the grass, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only visible indication of life. The emotionless man felt a lump forming in his throat.

He couldn't open his eyes, why could he not open his eyes? It felt as if there was something on them but that wasn't what was stopping them, the appropriate muscles would not respond. Come to think of it, none of his muscles seemed to be responding. What the hell was going on? Despite the normal control he had over his emotions he could feel panic welling up inside him, threatening to overwhelm him, not allowing him to think properly. Suddenly a blinding pain shot through his head and he wanted to groan, scream, tense his muscles, something, anything but instead he remained completely still, the chainsaw in his head continuing to threaten to rip his head in two. There was nothing he could do to stop it, no way to relieve his pain. Just as he felt himself being thrown into unconsciousness he heard a voice, a kind and familiar voice. It reassured him, calmed him slightly. "Please Sherlock, are you awake?" Sherlock drifted into unconsciousness to the sound of John's voice.

**SH**

The next time he awoke the same panic overwhelmed him making his judgement hazy, logical thinking was impossible and he lost control. Even in his frenzied state of mind the irony was not lost on him, for the one time he lost all control his body wouldn't portray it, he couldn't show it and for once in his life he wanted to communicate how he was feeling with someone else. He felt trapped; his limbs felt heavy, his wounds plagued him terribly. The thing he hated most was that he couldn't tell if anyone was there, there was nobody talking, he tried desperately to hear someone breathing but there was no sound but he knew that the fear he was experiencing could make it impossible to tell. He embraced the calm clutches of unconsciousness, excited to be able to escape his useless transport and to become unaware of his horrific situation.

The next time he actually felt calm, how could he possibly feel calm. All he had to do was breathe in, and out, breathe in, and out. It was only then he noticed there was something wrong, his breathing was regular, so very regular and he could not control it. For a moment he forgot he could not move, intrigued by this new phenomenon. He tried to feel around his mouth but of course he could not and suddenly he was overcome by an overwhelming urge to cry. The detective did not even know if he would be physically capable of crying, but that wasn't even the point. He would not cry, he may not be able to walk, or talk, or move his limbs, or open his eyes, but he was still Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes did not cry.

"Hello Mummy its Mycroft. No, no, no, don't hang up. I need to tell you something."

Sherlock's thoughts stopped; there was someone in here with him. It was Mycroft, Mycroft was here. For the first time in a couple of decades the detective was truly grateful for his brother's presence. Mycroft, Mycroft would sort everything out.

"Sherlock's hurt, it's pretty bad."

Of course Sherlock knew his injuries were bad but hearing Mycroft say it, knowing he was sceptical of any and all injuries, made it seem worse. It was more real and he knew there would be consequences.

"He's your youngest son Mummy, that's why you should care!"

Mummy had hated Sherlock ever since he started on the drugs and he knew it, she wasn't reserved in her opinions of him, but it still hurt when it was spelt out for him.

"He, um, he jumped off the roof of the hospital, he smashed his head in and now he is lying in a coma in a hospital bed and has been for the last ten days."

Good, Mycroft understood what had happened, but he wasn't in a coma. People in a coma were most certainly not this aware.

"He didn't try to commit suicide."

But that is how it was supposed to look; he'd done it for John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, but mostly John.

"LISTEN! It's hard to explain, it's related to a, well a case he's been working on. The criminal threatened three of his friends and he had to jump to save them."

He did jump but he didn't die, did he have to die? Was John still safe? Oh crap, were any of them still safe?

"Please, can you come down and see him?"

Stupid question.

"What if he doesn't get through this and the last time you saw him was ten years ago, won't you feel bad at all?"

No.

"I thought I and Sherlock were heartless but you're just taking it to a whole other level."

Suddenly the angry talking had stopped, forgetting his state Sherlock tried to roll his eyes and noticed he, although he did not have full use of them, he did have the ability for very limited eye movement. It wasn't much but it was something, he could work on it. "Sherly?"

_Mycroft, oh Mycroft, help me, please _Sherlock cried in his head, desperate for some form of help or comfort. He nearly started crying again as he felt unconsciousness overwhelm him. He drifted out to the sound of his brother's voice.

**SH**

His periods of consciousness, though still lacking, were beginning to increase in both frequency and length. Most of the time he woke up, feeling so alone, there was either nobody there or they weren't talking and he just couldn't tell. That in itself was almost as soul destroying as not being able to sit up and have a look. He could feel himself being overwhelmed by sadness and didn't know how much he could cope with. But he was going to have to cope. He had no choice.

Sometimes he woke up and there was someone there, he still felt sad but those times strengthened him although he wouldn't admit it, even if he could. One day he woke up to silence once again and he felt his heart sink, he thought he was bored at 221B but this boredom was something else, it was thick and impervious. "You know that nice builder that came in to fix the ceiling in the hallway after you shot it? I invited him into my flat for a cuppa afterwards and he accepted." Mrs Hudson. As soon as she said this the detective felt his heart drop and he had to remind himself she was still alive so the likelihood was that he had done enough to stop his friends from dying. The elderly woman kept on talking and Sherlock did not even listen to what she had to say. Her voice was soothing and familiar, everything about her shouted motherly and in a way Sherlock supposed he did consider her to be his mother. She looked after him as a loving mother would, not how his mummy did when he needed her. She stopped talking as abruptly as she had started and he felt empty and alone, in his mind he cried out desperately to continue with her mindless chatter. Suddenly a hand was in his curls and he could feel the grease in his hair, it disgusted him. The touch was gentle, tender and loving and instantly he felt himself warming to it. There was a strong and pulling desire to lean into the touch but he could not.

"Sherlock, it's Mrs Hudson." Obviously. "Can you hear me?" Yes, yes he could but he couldn't anymore because she wasn't talking and he really needed to keep on talking, everything would be ok if she just kept on going but she had stopped. Why did she stop? Did she not know that it was vital that she kept on talking, anything would do. In a sudden sense of despair the injured man did the only thing that he knew he could do, he moved his eyes but it seemed to be enough, Mrs Hudson knew and for once he neither felt pleased or disappointed when he could see unconsciousness on the horizon.

**SH**

"I know what you're thinking, no point talking to a man who can't hear you, it's stupid really, but I have something really important to tell you. Just, stop being stupid and wake up. Can you do that for me? Just, just wake up, it's not a big ask. Will you do it? Will you do it for John?" Lestrade was here, when did Lestrade arrive, Mrs Hudson was here a moment ago so when did he get here? And why was he talking to someone he obviously believed to be unconscious? It was completely illogical but if he were to be honest, Sherlock was grateful. He now lived to hear the sound of someone's voice. He needed to be noticed, he needed someone to realise he was awake so he moved his eyes again before passing out, this time, he didn't see it coming.

**SH**

The next few times he woke up it wasn't so difficult. He was awake for longer periods and most of the time there was someone talking, either to him or to each other. He guessed the times he woke up to no sound were during the night, they still should have been talking though. The detective was not the slightest bit interested in what any of them had to say but he just enjoyed hearing their voices, it seemed to restore to him some of his humanity. John liked to read the newspapers to him, he tried to select articles he would find slightly interesting but he didn't always manage. Mrs Hudson liked to gossip about people on Baker Street to him, Lestrade told him about the cases he was working on or just solved and Sherlock didn't even listen to Mycroft. He just liked to make himself look important.

**SH**

One day he woke up to John's voice, he always liked those times the best but this time he didn't like what he had to say. "I don't know if you can hear me Sherlock but you're going for an MRI, I won't be with you but I'll be here when you get back. Either myself or your brother, most likely Mycroft, will see to it we get your results quickly." _No John!_ He screamed in his head. _ Please come with me, please, I need you with me._ He felt himself being wheeled through a door and into a corridor, it was so much noisier out here and he hated it. "I'll see you in an hour or so." The warm touch left his arm and he felt himself moving again. _John?_ Suddenly he felt so, so alone and an inexplicable panic rising within him. But nobody knew, nobody would ever know. This time, he couldn't prevent himself from crying, and to his amazement and shame, he felt a tear creeping from his eye.


	5. Chapter 5

**Caught in transport**

The bright screens illuminated his face as John carefully studied the images displayed on them. Mycroft had managed to arrange for John to look at them before neurology made any diagnosis, they got the hard copies and he saw the digital versions. He was no neurologist so if he was honest he didn't overly understand what it was he was looking at. He could identify the different parts of the brain, that was not much of a bother but he couldn't tell what was wrong, but there was something wrong, he was sure of it. There was something around the brainstem that didn't look quite right but he was not able to pinpoint exactly what that was.

"Mycroft, it's John, I think you should get back to the hospital as soon as you can."

_Why, what's happened?_

"Nothing yet, the MRI has been taken and thanks to you I've seen the scan."

_Did you see anything?_

"I did but I'm not quite sure was but I am certain there is something there. This isn't my area of expertise though, not many MRI scanners in Afghanistan."

_No, of course, I'll be across shortly. Would you like me to contact Lestrade and Mrs Hudson?_

"If you wouldn't mind, I want to get back to Sherlock."

_Yes, thank you Dr Watson._

Mycroft sighed as he hung up his phone; resting his elbows on his desk he slowly massaged his eyes. He blamed himself for this entire situation, of course he did; it was his fault. It was too much to hope that when his brother emerged from his coma that he would be unscathed. Brain damage, his brilliant little brother could no longer be brilliant and it would all be his fault. People may think he didn't care but he did, he really, really.

It wasn't long before he found himself walking into Sherlock's hospital room, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson around his brother's bed, John looking concernedly at his hand and arm. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern that for some reason he couldn't hide anymore. John looked up and frowned.

"We need to get him moved as soon as possible Mycroft; someone's not been adhering to the correctly to Hippocratic Oath."

"Why? What've they done?"

"This IV, it's been pulled and it's ripped the skin and the skin all up his arm is bruised. They're fingerprints from where he hasn't been moved correctly. These things are all easily avoided and they simply should not have happened."

"It's alright Mycroft," placated Lestrade as he saw the signs that the elder Holmes was seething. "It's not like he's seriously injured or anything."

"Not now no, but a health care professional who gets away with this might be tempted to do something slightly more harmful. My brother has been through quite enough, thank you very much, and he doesn't need his supposed care takers causing him harm. If it's all the same to you I'll decide whether or not it's ok."

"Mycroft," said Mrs Hudson gently, laying a shaking hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort the powerful man. "Of course it's not on but you need to calm down. Sherlock's not in any real danger from it so there's no reason to get so worked up. Of course we have to find who did it but it could be worse."

Mycroft visibly took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his calm, cold and collected demeanour returning. "Right," he said nodding, mainly to himself. "I'm going to text Anthea; get her to start tracking down who might have done this to him. We'll wait for his results and then we'll get him transferred to a private hospital. Any questions or protests?" Everybody in the room simultaneously shook their head, John still partially distracted by injuries on his best friend's arm.

Inwardly Sherlock whimpered as he felt John gently probe his arm, he knew it was John, if not from the voice, then from the gentle yet calloused hands which obviously knew where to look to check for broken bones. Yes, his arm hurt, more than he would care to admit, but he just wanted to stop John worrying. The nurses had been less careful than they should have been when moving him and he heard the way they were talking about him. He was described as a freak, nothing new there, evil, psychopathic and a disgrace to his family. The hypocritical woman amused him; he was shameful to his family? He could tell, even with his inability to move, that she was seeing two different men at the same time (not including her husband), she was an alcoholic and possibly a drug addict.

Footsteps. Sherlock knew them but they weren't familiar; they belonged to the neurologist who had given him the MRI. Did this mean he had news? Hopefully he did, hopefully it would be good news, that before long he would be up and about, just as he was before. "Is everyone here?" came the gruff voice of the doctor. He didn't hear anyone saying anything in reply but he heard movement right next to him indicating John had nodded. "Ok, I'm afraid it's not good news," he continued and Sherlock felt physically sick at that sentence.

"He's got something called Locked-in syndrome, the name is very apt for what it does to a patient. Have any of you heard of it before." There was a mixture of replies, John and Mycroft said yes but Lestrade and Mrs Hudson said no. Sherlock knew all too well what it meant, he'd worked on a case presented to him by a Locked-in patient and their carer, he had no desire whatsoever to end up like that woman did.

"Ok, well I'll just show you the images we took of the brain." There was the sound of sheets being laid out on a table but Sherlock was only half listening. He knew what being a locked-in patient meant. He was going to be completely and utterly dependent on others, they were going to be helping him with the most personal aspects of his life and he hated the idea. At best he was a private person but this news meant he was going to lose any and all of his personal privacy and there was no way around it.

John felt like crying, this couldn't happen to Sherlock could it? Not the great and aloof Sherlock, the man who didn't need anyone for anything. The army doctor listened intently to everything the neurologist said, unlike the rest of the staff at the hospital he sounded as if he cared and knew what he was talking about, he seemed professional and therefore worth listening to.

The neurologist, Dr Forsyth, pointed to an area on the MRI image, at the very top of the brain stem, the very same area John had thought looked a bit odd. "Do you see how this area has what seems like a black smudge across it? In a healthy brain that area would be white. It's caused by damage to an area of the brain called the PONS. This area basically acts as a bridge between brain centres, break it and the signal cannot be sent. This means Sherlock is fully conscious, apart from the usual sleeping cycles though due to his injuries at the moment he will be sleeping more, but is unable to move. We will test to see if he is able to breathe unassisted, the likelihood is he can but will need a supply of oxygen. Hopefully it won't be long before he can breathe totally independently, luckily vital processes and funnily enough vertical eye movements are unaffected. Many patients after some time can blink too allowing for a very limited form of communication. I'm sorry, this is horrible news, and at a point when we know Sherlock is awake we will have to explain it to him too. Unfortunately at the moment we don't know when he's awake and when he's not."

At that point John snapped his eyes up from the images of Sherlock's previously perfect and brilliant brain. "We might know," he said sadly. "You said we might be able to attempt a limited form of communication?"

"Yes, through blinking and vertical eye movements. There is technology available, it takes some getting used to but it can allow for proper conversations."

"Yes, but just for now, if Sherlock's awake it's possible we would be able to communicate, just if I ask him yes and no questions?" Dr Forsyth nodded and John walked round and sat next to Sherlock on the bed. He spoke carefully, making sure he didn't speak any differently to the man on the bed to how he would normally speak to him. At this news Sherlock would be feeling horrified and distraught and John knew he would want to retain as many aspects of normality as he possibly could.

"Sherlock, communicating is going to be hard, that much is obvious, but we'll work something out. But for now if you can hear me I want you to open your eyes, if you can't do that just move your eyes." And Sherlock did try, he really did, it was through shear will power that he managed to open them open, it was just a crack, and he only managed for a few seconds but he had done it. For a moment he felt elation but then he collapsed, feeling shame at being pleased with such a simple take. His eyes hurt from the light which had streamed in from the dim room and all he wanted was for the earth to swallow him up. The earth, apparently had different ideas so instead he had to make do with taking refuge in John's words and relaxing into his friend's tender touch on his arm.

"Ok, that's good. I take it you've heard everything that's been said." Once again he tried to open his eyes but found that the effort was to much and fell into an impossibly deeper pit of self-loathing. Seemingly John knew what was going through his mind. "That's ok, we'll work on that Sherlock. Just get some rest ok, someone will be here when you wake up and we're going to make this as easy as we can for you. I promise, we all will."


	6. Chapter 6

**Caught in transport**

He was all alone; there was not a single person with him. The room was silent, there was the distinct absence of any noise other than the infernal beeping of the ECG machine that he so desperately wanted to rip apart and throw across the room. There was not talking, nobody flicking through pages of what would most likely be notes at the end of his bed, nobody was checking any of the connections which were embedded in his skin and as far as he could tell the was no sound of breathing except his. He took comfort in that his breaths no longer seemed to be induced by air being forced into his lungs via a tube which had been shoved down his throat. But all he could really think about was that John had lied, he had promised that somebody would be in there with him when he woke up but they weren't and he was all alone and why would they just leave him like that? Were they all just going to abandon him now that he could do nothing for himself?

It was ironic really, all he'd ever wanted was to be alone but now he was truly alone he wanted nothing more than for someone to be with him. Suddenly he felt terror overwhelm him, something he only ever recalled when the bomb jacket was strapped to John. He was alone and paralysed but he needed to escape. He managed to open his eyes and then there was a hand covering his own and a soothing voice gradually smoothing away his terror. "It's ok Sherlock; John will be back soon, he just needs to make sure he gets some rest." It was Mrs Hudson but anyone could have soothed him merely from their presence at that very moment. Even if Moriarty had been standing there he would have felt a bit calmer. "I'm just going to fetch John dear, he really did want to be here when you woke up but he's wearing himself out. I promised to fetch him if I knew you were awake."

_Please don't go _he begged in his mind. _I don't want to be alone._ Of course she didn't hear, she patted him gently on the hand and stood up. He would have given anything to reach out and grab her hand right at that moment, in fact he tried, he tried so hard, but it remained limp and useless, stationary on the bed next to him. Now he just wanted to scream in frustration, because he couldn't move, because he was all alone, because he couldn't even tell anyone that he wanted them to stay and because he could feel a distinct warm sensation spreading from around his crotch.

Now he didn't want anyone around, he desperately wished and hoped they would stay away so that they didn't have to see his humiliation. Logically he knew someone would find out but his mind screamed at him to make sure nobody found out. He hated having his emotions being so unguarded and free to roam around his mind, tormenting him. There were gentle voices approaching and his mind erupted into a desperate frenzy to escape from the perverse limbo he now found himself in. However his body remained still, the perfect façade of calm and indifference. "Hey Sherlock," he heard John say as he entered the room. His voice carried a forced light-hearted tone but Sherlock appreciated it, the more normality in the world the better.

Obviously he did not respond because he heard John sigh as he sat down next to the bed. He could tell John had not slept properly in a good few days, catching a few minutes here and there in the uncomfortable plastic chairs. As much as he was loath to admit it Sherlock did care about John and, even though he hated the man being away for any length of time really wished he would go back to Baker Street and get some rest. Scrap that, he wished they could both go back to Baker Street. "Sherlock, I really need you to make an attempt to respond when I talk to you, I have no other way unfortunately of knowing whether or not you are awake." The detective's eyes fluttered slightly but thankfully that was enough for John. He felt Mrs Hudson's gentle and rest on top of his and he was once again glad for the human contact, revelling in it and not feeling quite so alone. "Good, that's good. Now, knowing you I can almost guarantee you don't want me talking about your condition at all but I'm going to, I'll be quick but it's some stuff that occurred whilst you were resting. Communication is exceedingly difficult at the moment but Mycroft is out obtaining some special equipment that will allow more two way conversations. It works by registering eye movements, I hear it's quite complicated to use at first so I should imagine it will take you the whole of one day to learn to use proficiently."

There was a brief pause in which Sherlock actually managed to open his eyes and make brief eye-contact with John, just long enough to see him smile. How Sherlock loved that smile when it was directed at him. "That's great Sherlock, we'll need to get those muscles stronger before you can start using the computer but you're making rapid progress, I think by this time next week you will have tried it out at least. Anyway, once you get used to that you'll be able to regain some semblance of normality." Sherlock highly doubted that and mentally scoffed at John's foolishness. "I mean, at first you won't be able to go to crime scenes or anything but Lestrade can read you the reports of the cases and you can probably solve most of them from that information, even if they miss most of the important information. Once you are stronger, and we get a wheelchair sorted you may be able to go to some of the crime scenes but we'll have to wait and see about that one, I'm not making any promises."

The chair squeaked as John leaned back in it slightly and he rested his hand on the bed. Sherlock mentally froze, as did John physically. How the hell did he forget about that? It wasn't as if it was a minor matter to him, it was humiliating, and now John almost certainly knew and he was going to laugh at him. Not in front of him of course, but when he wasn't there, he would laugh and Sally and Anderson would find out, it was embarrassing and demeaning. The doctor leant forward again in his chair and gently felt the sheets of the bed, as if he could not believe what had happened. But John was a doctor; surely he had seen this before. He won't hate him for this will he? "It's ok Sherlock," soothed John, the kind doctor in him coming through. "I hope you don't mind but I'm just going to check the catheter. Sherlock could practically feel the confused stare Mrs Hudson was shooting John and he could also feel how hard John was trying to ignore it.

The cool air rushed to Sherlock's legs when the sheets were pulled back. As gently as he could he lifted Sherlock's gown enough to be able to get a good view of the catheter but not enough to reveal anything to Mrs Hudson. "What the hell?" John suddenly exclaimed loudly dropping the gown back to its original position. Mrs Hudson jumped violently and Sherlock felt a rush of adrenaline surge through his body, useless, pointless. "The valve on the catheter was closed," John seethed. That really was unforgiveable; if that had occurred earlier in the healing process it could have gone as far as killing Sherlock. It could still be dangerous, if it had infiltrated he could have developed septicaemia. Once he had stopped seething he opened the valve, it took only a few moments. "Sherlock, I'm very sorry I didn't notice before. Goodness knows how long you've been lying down in that." Stupid, it wasn't something John should be expected to spot, why would he be looking for it? "Can you move your eyes if you want a nurse?" Nothing. "We need to get you cleaned up mate, do you want Mrs Hudson and I to clean you up?" A slight flutter of the eyelids. "Ok, just let me go and get some stuff. I'm going to phone Mycroft, get him to hurry up with getting you transferred, and then I'll be right back, promise." With a quick squeeze of Sherlock's hand John left.

_**Reviews are always appreciated (hint hint). **_


	7. Chapter 7

_For those of you who have been asking for an update here it is. I haven't abandoned this story; it's just that it is the end of term and my teachers decided that what I really needed was a load of tests to prepare me for the holiday. Unfortunately passing them was a priority so I can continue with my courses which meant this had to be left for a little while. But they're over now and I passed which leaves me free to write, hopefully the lack of school for the next 2.5 weeks will mean more frequent updates. So here is the next instalment, I hope that it was worth the wait. Enjoy and don't hesitate to leave a review. I'm being serious, don't hesitate at all. _

**Caught in transport**

It wasn't long before John returned to the room, arms full of towels, cloths ad bed linens. He had phoned Mycroft and the man had been even more furious than John had been. Swearing he'd have the hospital shut down and that those who had been caring for his brother would never get a job anywhere again and he would personally ensure that they did not receive any benefits. Despite the fact that he was going too far, in the doctor's opinion, he did understand where the elder Holmes was coming from. One, or even maybe two, mistakes would have been forgivable but not the large numbers that were being made. There was really no excuse for that level of inattention or incompetence.

To be honest, he was dreading cleaning Sherlock up, that just wasn't what their relationship was like, but when Sherlock fell their relationship was irrevocably changed. John knew that the personal care was going to become a major part of their lives so he may as well get used to it. A part of him wished that the detective would allow the nurses just to do their job and clean him up the other part of him, the part of him that considered Sherlock closer than a brother reprimanded him for being so selfish. Even if Sherlock would deny it he was terrified and he wanted his best friend to help him, not a bunch of imbecilic nurses who hurt him. Anyway, John knew that once of his curable maladies were healed they'd be heading back home, even though that would not be 221b Baker Street as it was not wheelchair friendly, and once they were out of the hospital John knew he would be providing most of his care.

Oh, and how Sherlock would hate that yet there would be no one else he would rather do it. He would have to wash Sherlock; the man would probably end up wearing pads as well as having the catheter and John would have to change those. There would be enemas to perform and feeding would, most likely, be traumatic. He couldn't be kept on IV nutrition much longer and using a feeding tube through the nose was not a long term solution. A gastric tube would have to be placed, although John wouldn't do that himself. He wanted nothing more than for Sherlock not to need all this care but the reality was he did need it and John would do anything and everything within his power to make Sherlock's life that little bit more comfortable.

Tentatively he knocked on the door to Sherlock's room and closed the door behind him. He hated the fact he couldn't gauge how Sherlock was feeling, even under normal circumstances that was hard but the doctor had become quite accustomed to the slight twitches which betrayed the thoughts and emotions which he denied. Now there was nothing, absolutely nothing, but he was grateful to Mrs Hudson who studiously nattered away as she normally would.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was pleased that John had returned. Obviously he wanted to be clean, he felt disgusting, but the sheer intimacy was disturbing to him and he hated the idea of being so dependent on someone. But at the same time he felt he needed John and he hated it when he left the room, so in the classical Sherlock manner, he ignored his emotions, deemed them unimportant. As he felt the doctor's and Mrs Hudson's hands touching him wiping him clean in the most intimate of places, and their soothing voices which uttered endless streams of meaningless words with which they hoped to distract his ever active mind, he viewed the task logically and objectively. It was undignified for him to be left the way he was and could lead to serious health complications, and since he could do nothing about this himself, all down to his pointless _transport_, as a doctor John had no choice but to help.

He managed to ignore their ministrations and probing hands in this way until they began rolling him, this was hard to ignore. He was feeling slightly nauseous and horrendously embarrassed, he felt he was on full view to the world and was just grateful that Mycroft was not around to see him in such a position. Luckily it wasn't long before they were removing the sheet from underneath him expertly and tucking another, clean one, underneath his body. It was amazing really, it was obvious now that Mrs Hudson had previously been a nurse but he hadn't realised that before now. The nature with which she assisted John was trained and professional, how hadn't realised it with her kind and motherly nature before this point was beyond him but it was a trait that was natural to her. At least he still had command over his mind even if he didn't have it over his body.

John was expecting to find it awkward, to not quite know how to do such a simple task when the patient was his friend, Sherlock Holmes. However, once he had started it all came to him naturally and apparently to Mrs Hudson. Within no time at all and before he could do anything to stop her, Mrs Hudson had gathered up the soiled bedding in her arms and was heading towards the door. "I've got this dear, you've been losing too much sleep and you need to take things easy." John nodded, not feeling like disagreeing with her for once.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson, that's really very kind of you."

She directed a sad smile towards him before leaving the room, she really did feel very sorry for John, and even more so for Sherlock. It broke her heart to think of the emotional turmoil that must be raging through his mind. She couldn't imagine being in Sherlock's position right now, she honestly didn't think she'd be able to cope, but then again, he didn't really have much of a choice, there was nothing he could do about it.

As she shut the door she jumped as her eyes fell on Mycroft who was leaning on his umbrella, obviously waiting to speak to someone. "You can go in now Mycroft, we've cleaned him up and he's decent now." He nodded slowly as he looked disgustedly at the linens in her arms.

"Actually, if you have the time, I was rather hoping I could talk to you."

"To me?"

"Yes, if you would care to dispose of _that_ then we can go down to the cafeteria and I'll call my people to get us something decent to drink."

"Um, yes, ok but I am fine with drinking the stuff here, it's really not a problem."

"You may not mind it but I will not abide by the stuff, I will be ordering something palatable, you choose what you want."

Mrs Hudson was gone a long time, about an hour and a half, and John was worrying about her a great deal. He'd managed to distract himself by reading to Sherlock from the newspaper, keeping him up to date on all the latest murders and any other crimes he thought that the man would be interested in. He'd gotten through the whole newspaper and had just picked up his phone to call Mrs Hudson when the door to the room opened and in walked Mycroft, closely tailed by Mrs Hudson. "Hello Dr Watson."

"Mycroft," John acknowledged with a slight nod of the head before he quickly turned his attention to Mrs Hudson. "Where were you?" he demanded. "I was worried; I thought that Moriarty's men might have got you." The woman smiled apologetically.

"I'm sorry John; I was talking with Mycroft in the cafeteria."

"Oh?" he asked, suddenly intrigued.

"Yes," the elder Holmes said taking over from Mrs Hudson. "We were discussing where you would be living when Sherlock got out of hospital, that is assuming you still want to live with him of course."

"Well of course I do!" shouted John suddenly angered by the British government's mannerism. "I'm not the kind of person to abandon my friend simply because he is injured."

"Well I didn't think you were," he replied, ignoring John's outburst.

"And I would appreciate it if you did not talk about him like he's not here, Sherlock is completely conscious." Mycroft nodded and continued.

"An ambulance will be arriving in about two hours to take you and my brother to the private hospital where you and Mrs Hudson will be provided with your own rooms."

"And what about when he's well enough to leave hospital?"

"Well, I have discussed this at length with Mrs Hudson. She has agreed to vacate her flat and move into 221b so that you and Sherlock can live downstairs if you still wish to live in the same place. I shall pay for any ramps or room modifications which need to be made like widened doorways. Also, you will not need to pay the rent anymore, I will pay for that. If you are in need of more financial support then I am more than willing to provide it. I am currently trying to procure communication equipment for my brother but it is proving difficult, I shall let you know when it has been ordered." The doctor simply stared and Mycroft, he had a strong urge to hug him but he restrained himself, it was unlikely that scenario would end well.


End file.
